Posts tagged journal
Posts tagged journal
So I had my first sesh in hot yoga and love love loved it! Felt so much more flexible.
I am also on some sort of healthy living sports groove where I’m trying to do some form of exercise everyday. Not sure how long this will last, so far I’m on my second week. I would like to do the Nice half marathon at the end of April. Don’t know if I’ll be ready though, it’s awfully soon and so far I’m only at 5 miles; though I do think I could muster 6 at this point without dying.
January 1st must be the worst possible time to beginning making life-changing resolutions. Let’s think about it for a second. It’s cold, unpleasant, everyone has just eaten more than they deffinitely should and to top it off, it comes during a funny time of the year.
This tradition perplexes me enormously. People choose to start quitting their various addictions right when they need them most. Maybe it’s some sort of sick way of testing your endurement, I, however, refuse point blank to put myself through it.
How about this for a resolution: forget about resolutions. Just don’t do it! Let’s all be reasonable here; let live.
My reading list has reached exponential heights just now, of course right when I have no time to indulge it. A resolution would hardly be logical.
So first it was my flatmate who insisted that I watch this. Then it was my mom who telephones me and says “you have to watch Midnight in Paris,” then my flatmate once again: I’m making you watch Midnight in Paris.
When Judy described the film as something I could imagine in my not so unfrequent daydreams, I didn’t take her for her word.
Some advice? When those who know you best implore that you watch a certain film or read a certain book, listen to them, something tells me you won’t be disappointed.
Verdit: I now have a new favourite movie. I love Midnight in Paris.
I sometimes think that it takes more time to get around to the idea of writing, than to the writing; than it actually takes to write.
When I sit down to write, I do everything but write. Is this normal? Am I insane? I know I’m utterly undisciplined beyond repair. That being said, the fact that I am actually sitting down to the preprocess itself is a big step forward.
Anthony Trolloppe got up very early every morning and wrote. He was a machine! The amount of fiction and essays that man regurgitated from his mind is unbelievable in my imperfect world. Perhaps I should try getting up early? TRY here being the key word most unfortunately I rarely succeed.
Note to self: get up early. Go for a run. Read the news. Write. Write. Go to work. Be bored at work until eyelids fight. Go home. Eat. Sleep. Continue routine. Somewhere in between there find time for everything else. Life.
I was rather dissapointed with this years’ jazz festival in Nice. There may be a number of reasons for this, some of which lie more with the fact that we tend to embelish our memories of well spent evenings.
This year, as opposed to the last, the festival was held in the Albert I gardens in the centre of town. Every other year it took place in Cimiez, in the gardens of the Matisse museum.
A downside to the city centre is that the gardens are quite simply much smaller. They have less grass, less trees and more cement. They are primmed and fashioned. There was hardly any space to sit on the grass and enjoy a beer and a smoke with friends here, people were nearly on top of each other like sardines.
The year before you were able to walk in and smell the atmosphere around you. People relaxed, sat down, stood up, danced, walked, listened.
All that being said; the musicians were very good. The main event (Morcheeba) for which I chose Sunday night was deffinitely a highlight and made it worth the evening out, but not the 35 euro it cost.
In all, the evening was pleasant but could have been spent differently without much ado. Here’s to inflated expectations and their inevitable clash with reality.
Everyone has an obsession of some sort n’est ce pas?
I don’t know what mine is quite yet. I know I have many, but what’s that ONE thing I can’t stop thinking about?
Writing is an obsession, I always think about you. You haunt me. You follow me around even when I go to sleep and you taunt me. DO something. WRITE something! Taunting is no good. Nothing happens. Everything falls and not into place but in scattered bits and pieces all over paper and computers and blank mind spots and random hung words on clothes lines along streets.
Waiting on messages and words from other people is a sad truth. What if we never waited? Would the world be worse or would it be better?
Image is an obsession. It’s a compulsion. I am obsessed with images whatever they are. I walk by a mirror and I instinctively look into it. Not to look at myself, but almost to make sure I’m still there, still the same. I was told as a child that if you look into the mirror for too long you’ll see the devil staring back at you. In a way it’s true, you see yourself, but a version of yourself so altered it is no longer you but a you at its’ worst.
When you turn twenty-five, you are not married and you’re a woman, you become an old maid. That is the time to get a cat.
Well, I am going to get a cat. The decision came to me rather unconsious of the coralation with spincterhood, and I am satisfied that even with the unfortunate jokes that will accompany it, a kitten is just what I need.
Oh old age, how you creep up on us!
Am I on the brink of developing yet another addiction? Working in my new place of employment may actually do more bad than good. I’ve already had time to buy three tank tops and a pair of shoes. How do people control themselves?
It’s clear that I have to save money. The methodology of doing this, however, simply escapes me.
They are very pretty my new shoes AND comfortable. I was in them all day and my feet only hurt a little at the end.
My addiction: spending money. Help!
(That’s a lie, I don’t even want help, eek!)
Walking in on people on the toilet just seems like one of those things that will happen to you very often in life. The revese as well.
Before coming to Europe, a bathroom door without a lock on it seemed to me almost absurd, lately though I have had to get rather used to it. You see, my toilet has no lock on it. There is a number of people on whom I’ve opened the door. These are of course the types of situations you tend not to speak of again if there is any embarassement between the toilet sitter and the walker-inner. In most cases, there is some level of emabrassement therefore, no one ever speaks of that horrifying incident again.
Personally I don’t particularly enjoy spending lot’s of time on the toilet. I don’t read on there, or stare at the ceiling or make phonecalls. I get bored and and to get out as soon as possible. Reading material in toilets often amuse me. I know that there is a number of people who are capable of going through entire chapters or book or indeed of whole magazines while pooing. Either that or they’re just far too lazy to get up once finished, the volume in their hands being too gripping to put down of the period of time it will take them to wash their hands (hopefully) and move to the salon where they could be quite at ease in a big comfy chair.
Either way, it seems that The Toilet plays a very important role in modern culture (it probably always has) and we really must stop being so squeemish about it. What will it take?